𐌔𐌕𐌀𐌕𐌉𐌂 𝙎𝙀𝙍𝙀𝙉𝙄𝙏𝙔

When the Light Fades

Since I was a child, one question has persistently troubled me,

"Where do we go after death?"

Sometimes, it would nag at my brain all day and all night. I wanted concrete answers with undeniable proof to explain what life was, a repertoire of reasoning that proved the end, not tales from adults about virtues and sins.

Everyone I knew launched into the conversation almost exactly the same, explaining divine judgment and how my afterlife was being weighed on some kind of celestial scale of universal importance. 

Yet they were ideals, not proof. Now, thoughts and concepts, well they were something ethereal, something elusive to me. 

It's as if, like some sort of light mist, they slipped through my fingers with hardly any effort. 

I was too young at that time in life to really make sense of things of that nature and too young to fully recognize the depth of issues in the world that enveloped me.

From out of darkness, now emerged a memory, just as light from some old forest might shine a great way off and glimmer forth, through countless years.

It started as a soft and nearly inaudible glow, of the sort one feels emanated from the base of the shadows, as if those same shadows were averse to ever letting it out or revealing its face.

It was as if some fleeting vision had suddenly streaked across the memory, making it all but blindingly clear and breaking up the thick, closed fog of the unknown that surrounded it. 

That memory came with colours, soft muted hues painted across a dark black canvas in my mind.

"If there really is a God, why is it that so many people suffer?" I muttered, and my words quivered under the question that definitely felt no need for discretion. 

My hand rose in the air hesitantly at first but then, grasped by an unexpected grip of bravery, I stood up tall. 

I was ready for the worst, but my curiosity reached such a level that even fear couldn't stand in its way.

The other children watched me with wide, apprehensive eyes, their small hands twisting nervously in their laps. They seemed to plead with me silently to sit back down.

This was Sunday School, why wasn't everybody else curious?

My father was the local preacher in our small community. This was not one of those times when you would interrupt his presence, which commanded hushed reverence in our rural town. People always received him quietly and with respect. 

But when I broke that calm with my interruptions, it shattered like a piece of glass, and I could see he was upset. Father often looks unhappy about what he calls my "disruptions," in class and I can almost feel his disapproval like a heavy burden.

I hated constantly disappointing him. For once, I wanted to see him happy.

"Sit down, young lady." The iron-fisted command of my father was a presence that seemed to control our lives. That same unyielding presence which dominated our home and every life in it, now began to dominate mine.

The strength within his tone was enough to make most children obey his every command, but I stood my ground. Pushed on by some deep-burning need for answers, I did.

Night after night, I would lay and listen to my mother's soft, desperate pleas for my father to settle his anger and find some inner peace amid his raging temper. But he was always adamant about having his way, and in his little world we were all just chessboard pieces to move around at will by him, not for ourselves or for our needs and happiness. His temper was a storm that loomed over our household constantly, unpredictable and terrifying.